by J.R. Bowles
CHAPTER 19
Reverend Lamb sat in his room and waited for the messenger to return. He couldn’t figure out what was going on. Why would anyone send him this much money?
After the girl left, Thomas quickly dried off and slipped on his pants and shirt. As he sat there string off into space, still barefoot, there was a knock at the door.
“I’m back,” the woman said, before he had opened the door.
He again cracked the door to inspect her and the man in a security uniform, gun and all.
“We don’t usually deliver cash, but it was specified in the instructions we received.” She did all the talking while the guard walked over to the dresser and set down a brown leather bag, then departed.
“I must insist you count it and sign right here for the actual receipt.” She smiled while sitting down on his unmade bed.
“This is all too strange,” Thomas shook his head while frowning. “Who could have sent this?”
“What's on the gram is all I know,” she responded, while he counted. “Would you like an escort around the city?”
Thomas paused in his counting, first thinking he could use some guidance in this city, feeling apprehensive. But he had asked God for help, hadn't he? And this was just a friendly young woman, with soft brown eyes. “I would like that.” He smiled.
“Good, soon as you sign, I'll go back to my office and take the rest of the day off. I'll be back in about an hour.”
He finished counting. “It's all here; I can't believe this. Where do I sign?”
She walked very close to him. “Sign here.”
Thomas reached into his pants pocket.
“No tip, it's my pleasure. I'll be back in an hour. I've been needing a break.” As she was closing the door she added, “As Sherlock Holmes said, 'The game is afoot.'”
Thomas stared at the door. What was going on? Who was helping him? God knows, he needed the help. He smiled to himself. God does know! Was he supposed to kill this Anti-Christ? If that was the case, how?
Could he bring himself to kill, even for God?
Less than forty-five minutes passed; he heard a knock.
“Who is it?” he asked, feeling disquieted with all this money in the room.
“Becky from Western Union, I'm back.”
He opened the door. “Come in.” He smiled as he noticed she had changed to a dress and light jacket.
“Hi, Becky,” he offered his hand, “thanks for coming.”
“Hi,” she bubbled.
He needed help; maybe she was God's messenger too. Could he trust this stranger? Ask and you will receive, he heard in his mind. God, please let this be real help, he thought.
“I've finished packing. I need to move to the Castleton.”
“I know, I read your telegram. I already called and made a reservation, and I have a taxi waiting downstairs.” She grabbed a suitcase.
“My word, you're way ahead of me. But you know,” he paused solemnly, “right now I need all the help I can get.”
“I figured that, country boy,” she said, teasing him.
He bristled, then relaxed, seeing she was kidding him.
“My accent that bad?”
“Bad? Not hardly, it's quite charming.”
“Are you from New York?”
“Born and raised here. Grew up in Queens, but I live in the East Village now. Can't you hear my accent?”
They chatted about New York, the weather and various inane subjects en route to the Castleton. Upon arriving, Becky quickly paid the taxi.
“I could have paid, as if you didn't know,” Thomas protested.
“I know, but do you think he's got change for a hundred? You don't need to flash that kind of money around anyway. Don't worry, you can owe me.”
They walked over to the clerk on duty.
“Reservation for Thomas Lamb.” Becky stated.
The clerk punched at his computer, all the time looking Becky over with faint distaste, and checking Thomas out.
“Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Lamb, and how many nights will that be?”
“Mr. and Mrs.?” Thomas thought to protest but Becky squeezed his hand.
“Ten days, Rudy,” Thomas said, noting the clerk's name tag. He had often made it a point to use people's names whenever possible; he felt it was more personable.
Rudy was pleased with the recognition, and asked cheerfully for the first time today, “How would you like to pay for that sir?”
“Cash.”
Rudy collected the money and handed over the room card key. “That's room 228.”
As they walked to the elevator, Thomas asked, “What is this Mr. and Mrs. stuff?” He raised his eyebrow.
“In this city, if you are by yourself they figure you're either up to something, or gay. When I called to make the reservation, I could tell what that guy's persuasion was at the desk, and knew you haven't had experience dealing with anyone like him.”
